


The Perfect Life

by brightly_lit



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen, Teen Years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-05 15:11:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/724700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brightly_lit/pseuds/brightly_lit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A new guy comes to school, who has looks, cool, and attitude to spare.  Name: Dean Winchester.  Basically, he's a guy's perfect new friend, even if his family's a little weird.  Okay, a lot weird.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Perfect Life

**Author's Note:**

> I've always thought the Winchesters must have been quite something when viewed through the eyes of their classmates and neighbors. This story explores that idea.

Greg met the new guy’s eyes as he made his way back to a seat after the teacher introduced him to the class: Dean Winchester.  Greg cleared his jacket off the seat in front of him, and Dean slipped easily into it, saying “Thanks” under his breath and smirking in his general direction.  Greg smirked back, already sensing a kindred spirit in Dean. 

 

Sure enough, not a minute later, a piece of candy flew through the air and landed on Greg’s desk, where he snatched it up, unwrapped it, and ate it in one quick motion.  “Back atcha.”

 

It was about time.  Not like Greg was unpopular or anything, but the friendship of someone cool like Dean--cool jacket, cool boots, and more attitude than one 16-year-old guy should be able to contain--would be exactly the boost his reputation needed to finally get him up where he’d always wanted to be, and then maybe he could finally get a girlfriend.

 

It wasn’t like he didn’t have things to offer in return.  He had a car, for one--a nice car, because his family had money.  Dean didn’t even try to hide that his didn’t, but that only made him more cool; Greg was slumming it a little, and that was as awesome as he’d always been led to believe.  Anyway, Dean was just a kid like any other kid in school, and pretty nice most of the time.  He only looked dangerous.  He had a nerdy little brother who might have brought him down, but somehow Dean managed to make being the protective older brother look cool, too.  Dean had a girlfriend by the end of his first day.  He was the perfect new friend.

 

* * *

 

 

 

It was a close-knit neighborhood that fed into their high school and everyone knew everything about everybody else.  Greg knew exactly where Dean lived and when they’d moved in because his mother and father talked about the new boys moving into that lousy rental and how they seemed too sleazy for this neighborhood and like they shouldn’t be able to afford it.  Seriously, how much cooler could Dean get? 

 

So, even though he hadn’t been invited, Greg went over to Dean’s house that weekend, gazing with unabashed awe at their incredibly cool classic car as he pulled up.  Suddenly his Mercedes seemed so lame.  Dean was outside with what must be his father, washing the car.  Dean waved and smiled at Greg as he arrived.  Greg must have imagined the quirk of a frown he saw first, though he was sure he didn’t imagine the scowl on the dad’s face, so Greg put on his best good-boy impression and held out his hand.  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Winchester.  What an awesome car!  That’s, like, the coolest car I’ve ever seen.  What is it?”

 

The dad’s return smile was delayed a split second too long, but when it finally came, it seemed real warm and sincere.  He shook his hand and muttered something quickly to Dean about cleaning up inside before telling Greg it was a ’67 Impala.  Dean beat it into the house, which was kind of weird; Greg thought they’d be out there talking cars for a while, but whatever.  He followed after Dean.  Mr. Winchester also seemed to think they’d be talking cars for a while and tried to call him back, but Greg just waved and went inside, where Dean and his little brother started and stared at him wide-eyed, abruptly putting their bodies between him and what they’d been working on.  Greg looked at what they were doing and burst out with a shocked laugh.  There were guns everywhere.  Freakin’ everywhere.  “Holy shit,” said Greg.

 

“Our dad’s a hunter,” the kid brother--Sam--said in that weird expressionless way he had, eyes hooded.

 

“Yep; he loves to hunt,” Dean agreed casually.

 

Greg glanced again at the spread, which the two boys were now quickly dispensing with into closets and cupboards.  The kid brother put a field-stripped pistol back together and slammed in the magazine so fast, Greg wondered if he’d imagined it had been in pieces before.  What twelve-year-old knew how to do that?  “... With pistols?” Greg asked, confused.

 

“Nah; those are for self-protection,” Dean said, grabbing Greg by the shoulder and steering him into the kitchen.  “Cheese stick?”  Greg glanced back over his shoulder to see that shrimpy little kid hoist a rifle in one hand and a sawed-off in the other, and scurry out of the room.

 

Shaken, Greg accepted the cheese stick.  Dean talked at him about normal stuff--school, girls, food--for a while, and Greg was finally able to mostly shake it off.  Dean seemed able to tell he was still kind of freaked out, and said under his breath, “Sorry about all the weapons.  Truth is ... my dad is CIA.”  He nodded at him sagely, and a tingle went up Greg’s spine.  Seriously, Dean was the coolest friend ever!  “I really wasn’t supposed to tell you that.  Just don’t mention it to my dad; he’ll deny everything.  But that’s why we move around a lot.”

 

Greg looked around at the tiny house.  It really was the worst house in the neighborhood.  “If he’s CIA, why don’t you guys have any money?”

 

“The wife,” Dean said quickly, unfeelingly, although as he continued to tell the tale, more feeling came into his voice.  “Not our mom.  Some other chick.  Took him for everything he was worth and tossed him out on the street.  That’s where all our money goes.  She still gets alimony; can you believe that?”

 

Greg glanced out the front window at Mr. Winchester, still washing the car, dressed in filthy jeans and a jacket that looked like he’d had it since 1972.  It was how all three of them dressed.  “You can’t even afford clothes?  But ... you can afford weapons?”

 

“Yeah,” Dean said vaguely.  “Hey, you wanna go somewhere?” 

 

They took Greg’s car and went to get ice cream.  Dean also had a fantastic fake i.d. that he promised he would use to get them into a bar that weekend.  He said his dad didn’t even mind that he had a fake i.d., like he’d known about it from the beginning.  He had such an awesome family.  Greg kept suggesting they go somewhere to pick up chicks, but Dean kept saying he already had the one he wanted and he wasn’t ready to risk losing her just yet.  Greg begged for tips on how to get a girl of his own, and Dean told him to lie, which was useless to Greg, since everyone knew everything about everyone in their neighborhood and she would know he was lying. 

 

Still, they had a good time.  By the time Greg was headed home that night after dropping Dean off, the guns had only added to the mystique of his amazing new friend.  In all his years, Greg had never expected someone that cool to come to his lame neighborhood.  Dean becoming his friend was like a dream come true.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Greg drove Dean home from school every day the following week.  He never saw any more guns after that.  Maybe they were just organizing them that afternoon.  Still, it was so many guns.  Jeez.  He and Dean would shoot the breeze while the kid brother ghosted around the house like a tiny little spy-in-training, keeping an eye on them.  It wasn’t like he had a friend of his own to keep him occupied.  Greg had seen other little brothers do this, but it was usually because they were either worshipping their older siblings from afar or planning some sort of prank.  Sam didn’t seem to be doing either.  It was more like he was ... being a big brother to Dean, the way Dean did with Sam.  Every now and then, when Greg was asking Dean questions and Dean was doing that vague thing, not answering, Sam would randomly pop in and answer him.  It was pretty freaky, but Sam was pretty freaky.  He kind of gave Greg the creeps.

 

Greg loved hanging out at their house.  They could do anything--seriously, anything.  Dean could leave any time he wanted and go anywhere he wanted.  They could eat anything they wanted.  Dean blew off his homework every day and never seemed to get in trouble.  Dean even cracked open a beer one afternoon and was sure his dad wouldn’t mind.  They must have the most lenient father in the world.  It seemed like they lived the perfect life ... until Friday afternoon, Greg and Dean burst through the front door, chortling loudly about something, and Mr. Winchester was waiting for them in the livingroom, glowering, Sam hovering silently right behind him.  “Dean,” said Mr. Winchester, and Greg didn’t know how, but there was more menace in that one little word than Greg had ever heard out of any other person in his whole life. 

 

He and Dean both stopped short, and Dean stood up straight.  “Yes, sir?”

 

“Why were you in school today?” said Mr. Winchester in that same menacing way, and Greg did a double-take.  Could he possibly have heard him right?

 

“Wasn’t I ... supposed to be?”

 

“I thought you were going to be ... helping me today instead.  It’s the whole reason we’re here.”

 

“That was today?”

 

“Did you look at the calendar?”

 

“I thought it wasn’t until tomorrow.”

 

“It lasts three days,” Mr. Winchester said coldly.

 

“Oh.  I, uh ... thought you wouldn’t be needing my help until ... nightfall.”

 

They were both being vague, choosing their words carefully, their eyes occasionally flickering to Greg as he looked between them, bewildered.  “My research ... is inconclusive on that point,” said Mr. Winchester darkly.

 

“Oh.  Sorry.  Well, I’m all yours now.”

 

“We’ll have dinner first.  You’re cooking.”  Clearly, this was meant as a punishment.

 

“Can Greg stay?”

 

Mr. Winchester was already almost out of the room.  He barely shrugged, most irritable, if not downright hostile.  Unaccountably then, Dean broke into a smile again and said, like that meant everything was fine, “Awesome.”  He turned to Greg.  “Whaddya want for dinner?”  Greg didn’t miss the tension all over his face, though, like the smile was something he was used to putting on to hide it.  Everything was obviously not fine.  The dad’s fury and foul mood emanated through the house like something out of Mordor.  Sam, that shrimpy little twelve-year-old, looked as serious as the president, collecting notes and other random objects and packing them carefully in a duffle bag.

 

Dean cooked them grilled cheese sandwiches with chunky soup, which the rest of the family came to the table and ate without a word.  Dean was still trying to joke around with Greg, but it was pretty hard to, with the grim atmosphere, and Dean obviously so anxious about it.  Greg felt compelled to try to make it better.  “You’re lucky,” he told him.  “I never get to skip school.  My parents would kill me.”

 

“Oh.  Well, I fail at everything, anyway, so it doesn’t really matter,” Dean said, eyes continually going to his dad, who showed no expression.

 

Still, the dad spoke up then, voice gravelly and frighteningly calm.  “Why don’t you just have done with it then, Dean?  I thought you were going to get your GED and help me full-time.”

 

“But--high-school chicks,” Dean protested, and whaddya know, the little kid actually cracked a smile.  “They trust you more if you’re still in school with ’em.”  Sam cracked up, choking it down as best he could, also eyeing their father repeatedly.

 

The dad rolled his eyes, but didn’t argue. “You better be using condoms,” he muttered.

 

Greg chuckled nervously.  “Heh-heh.  Most parents are saying, ‘Stay in school.’  Everything in this house is ....”  Every set of eyes at the table suddenly fixed intently on him.  “... Different,” he finished weakly, wondering what he’d said that was so wrong.  This felt wrong.  Everything about this felt bad.  He felt like this was what people talked about when they talked about kinds of people you should avoid.  His instincts made him want to flee, but Dean could obviously use a friend right now, and there was no danger to Greg.  Okay, their dad was pretty strict ... in a really unusual way ... but parents never hurt other people’s kids.  Greg was safe.  He didn’t know why his instincts were screaming at him like that.

 

After dinner, Greg offered to clean up.  Dean was totally going to leave him to do it by himself, but then his father reminded him that guests shouldn’t have to clean up, certainly not alone.  It was like Dean had hardly ever had a friend over before.  “Okay,” Dean said, and, telling Greg he’d be back to help him in a second, followed his dad into the other room.  Greg strained to hear their conversation.  He could only catch snatches:

 

“Is Sam comin’?”

 

“No ... dangerous.  He poured the silver ... molds.”

 

“How long will this take?”

 

Greg couldn’t hear his answer.  Their voices dropped to a whisper, and Greg couldn’t hear anything more.  Dean burst into the room a minute later, weirdly jubilant, kind of jazzed, even though in another way he seemed even heavier than before.  “Bummer that you have to help your dad on a Friday night,” Greg said, trying to get Dean to open up about what they were going to go do.  “We were gonna go to the bar this weekend, right?  I thought we would pick up chicks.”

 

“I keep tellin’ you, you’re in high school; it’s like shooting fish in a barrel.  Anyway ....”  Dean glanced toward the other room where his father was, and he lowered his voice.  “I might still be back in time to do something.  Can I call you, if I get back in time?”

 

“Sure!”  Greg was incredibly relieved to hear this.  Something about the whole family dynamic was making Greg feel like he might be losing Dean as a friend.  At least Dean still wanted to go out, and really, how late could they be?  “I’ve got my own phone line.”

 

“Sweet.  I’ll call you ... what, by midnight?”

 

“I’ll be up ’til two at least.”

 

“Awesome,” said Dean, but his mind no longer seemed on the conversation.  Sure enough, the rest of what he said was either directed at his brother or his father: “Sam, you got that duffle packed up right?”

 

“I finished that like fifteen minutes ago.”

 

“And everything’s in there?”

 

Sam just made a disgusted noise and went to rummage in one of the closets they’d stuck some of the guns in.  “What do you think?”

 

“Dad?” Dean called to the other room.  “Do you need help getting ready?”

 

“No, Dean, what I need is for you to finish up and get ready to go.  The moon rose over an hour ago.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

Dean barely had the attention to spare to say goodbye to Greg as he prepared to head out with his dad, all decked out in his jean jacket, thick boots, the duffle bag, a notebook, and was that a weapon Greg saw tucked into the back of his jeans?  “Call me tonight,” Greg said.  “Don’t forget.”

 

“Sure,” Dean said distractedly, waved at him, and shut the door after him, already turning back with an uncharacteristically serious expression on his face to talk to his dad, saying, “Yes, sir.  Got it, sir.  I’m ready, sir.”

 

* * *

 

 

 

Greg drove around aimlessly, troubled and kind of bored.  There wasn’t really anyone else he could call this late.  Dean was who he wanted to be hanging out with, anyway.  Greg couldn’t quite shake Dean’s whole family vibe.  The dad and the kid brother were definitely a little weird, but Dean was normal; he was just a normal kid.  The weird events of the evening were all the more reason why they should go out later that night and blow off some steam, get Dean’s mind off everything, get him back to being the fun, happy guy Greg knew.

 

He finally parked a couple of houses away and waited for Dean, listening to the stereo, since he didn’t have anything better to do and he didn’t want to go home. 

 

Sure enough, around eleven, the Impala peeled into the driveway.  Greg eagerly jumped out of his car to go greet them, and stopped short, staring in horror at the sight illuminated by both their front porch light and a streetlight: Mr. Winchester hauling Dean out of the front seat of the Impala.  Dean was covered with blood.

 

Mr. Winchester was yelling at him, though now it seemed like he was more frightened than angry.  “This better not be your blood, Dean!”

 

“It’s not!  I swear!”

 

“It had time to practically kill you.  You telling me it didn’t also have time to bite you?”

 

“It didn’t, Dad!”

 

“Why’d you let it get so close?  What did I tell you?!”

 

“It was after you!  I had a line on it, and--”

 

“I gave you an order!” he shrieked, shaking him roughly.  “This is why!  I better not be putting my son down tomorrow like a dog.”

 

Then Greg realized Dean was crying.  Dean.  It seemed impossible.  “I’m sorry, Dad,” he choked, tears trickling down his bloody face.  That was when he laid eyes on Greg, who stood there, unable to move. 

 

Cool, collected, capable Dean.  Dean, who had the perfect life, crumpled in his father’s arms, sobbing, looking more wretched than any human being Greg had ever laid eyes on.  Dean knew what Greg saw.  Greg knew Dean didn’t want him to see it, never wanted him to see it, wished he could make him unsee it.  Greg would never unsee it.  He didn’t know who these people were who collected weapons and went on mysterious nighttime hunts that brought them back bloody with their fathers threatening to kill them.  It was something he knew he would never understand, and it would haunt him for the rest of his life, not knowing.  He knew if he did know, it would haunt him even worse.  This was what his instincts were trying to save him from.  He didn’t even have to know what was going on to somehow be hurt by these strange people.  These bad people. 

 

Dean saw that, too, and Greg watched him sink a little further down into a hole he would never crawl out from, to be seen this way by Greg, but Greg couldn’t afford to feel sorry for him, not anymore.  Greg took a step back, then another, then turned and ran to his car, trying not to look as he sped past, the little brother running out the front door, looking so scared, the father shouting to him for help, all three of them, locked in this relationship so tight and so twisted that it didn’t leave room for anyone else. 

 

They didn’t come back to school the next day.  That night at dinner, Greg’s mom said they abruptly moved out that very afternoon.  “You knew the older boy, didn’t you?” she said.  “Weren’t you becoming friends?”

 

“Nope,” said Greg.

 

 

~ The End ~


End file.
